


inspiration

by phantasior



Category: Decay Chain
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:07:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22363069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantasior/pseuds/phantasior
Summary: Apollo's life has been riddled with deaths, but there's only one he'll remember.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	inspiration

**Author's Note:**

> i hope it's not too out of character i am justtt chilling! enjoy.

Apollo remembers his life falling apart as clear as day.

Nothing else is as clear in his mind—certainly no other death. The events of the past twelve years are a blur to him. He doesn’t remember the faces of any of the people he’s killed in the past six, either. Doesn’t remember what buildings he’s burned down, what assassination orders he’s gotten, the names and faces of the countless whose blood he’s shed—none of it. He only remembers fire—whichever one he set, it doesn’t matter—burning and crackling, reminding him that there’s still light.

But the events of that day haven’t left him, or he wouldn’t seek solace in fire anymore.

. . . He can’t say he hates it. He doesn’t care. About the fact that it’s affected him like this, anyway. With shitty things come nice things—he might’ve lost something, but he has a source of comfort now. And a mission.

He’s still angry, though. He knows that much. He remembers the pain, the rage, sees it in the fires he lights and hears it in the screams of his victims. It’s the only thing about his crimes that he experiences vividly, because it forces him to think back to all of his suffering. All the nights he spent tortured by his foster parents, thrown out of their homes, making rough landings into his next home only to be abused again—forced to work all day, thrown around, screamed at, beaten to a pulp—again, again, again, again—

And he remembers Atlas.

He remembers learning of his parents’ deaths and feeling like a dagger had been driven through his chest. He remembers Atlas leaving him to die and feeling like his life was burnt to a crisp. He remembers catching Atlas with all of his belongings—their belongings—Apollo’s, their mother’s, their father’s.

He remembers the look on Atlas’s face despite it being too dark out to see shit. Did Atlas really think he could hide in the cover of the night like that? And he still recalls his own disbelief at the idea that Atlas would even _think_ to do that—to hide, to _run away_ from his brother, as if he was the only one who was suffering. Atlas had always looked after Apollo in the past—so _why was it different then?_

He knows the answer now. He knows that it’s because he shouldn’t have believed in Atlas in the first place. In anyone. But it’s too late for that.

He remembers his voice, shallow and ragged, quiet but resonant as he called out, _Hey! Where are you going?_

He knows the answer now. Hell. Like everyone else.

. . . Just kidding. He doesn’t believe in that sort of thing. What he does believe in are the flames ignited by his own lighter, the ones _he_ engulfs his victims in—as he should. He remembers finding that, too, when he stumbled back into his house in his shocked stupor, his eyes falling on the only thing left for him to keep—the lighter with the _M_ engraved on it.

And he holds it now, flicking it on and off as he stares at the television—not that he normally watches this thing, man, he doesn’t even know why he’s been hanging out inside his apartment for this long. Still, he’s flipping through the channels when a name catches his eye.

Maxwell. Atlas Maxwell.

Oh, funny. He’d just been thinking about him for the first time in a while, and now he happens to see him on the news. What’s he doing on there, anyway? Now, _Apollo_ _’s_ usually mentioned on the news—not by name or anything, but by crime—but Atlas ? Has he succumbed, too? Committed some atrocity? If he had it in him to fucking _abandon_ his _brother_ , then—

Ah, no. As it turns out, it’s a report on a serial killing. Atlas died as an innocent victim _._ People who don’t even know him will mourn him.

He doesn’t know what’s surprising him. He shouldn’t have expected to even find out at all if his brother were to die, but that’s not it. No, Apollo just always figured he would get what he deserved . . . but the world isn’t like that, is it? The world doesn’t punish on its own. That’s why Apollo has to do it himself.

Maybe he should’ve.

He stands up and steps out of his apartment. As his door swings shut, a familiar voice calls from across the hallway: “Hey! Where are you going?”

Hmm. He ignores it, but the voice comes again, louder this time: “Don’t you walk off, young man! Where would you heading off to in the middle of the night?” He turns his head a little to see his building manager—Sydney, or something like that—storming down a flight of stairs. “Especially when you still haven’t paid your damn _rent_ this month.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then he grins at her. “Sorry ’bout that. I’m just going off for a walk.”

She narrows her eyes at him, her posture relaxing a little. “Hey, listen,” she says. “I was reading the paper earlier.”

This lady reads newspapers? Apollo already doesn’t want to hear it.

“Something about a serial killer going from city to city . . . be careful,” she says. “We’re next in line, it looks like. Guy attacks at night, I have no clue why you’re going out now.”

Ah? So she’s worried about him? “Oh, c’mon, lady, I’ll be fine,” he says, waving his hand at her. “You’re talkin’ to a grown guy here. I’d be worried about _you_!” He’s not.

Sydney isn’t laughing. Her smile’s a little somber, actually, as she steps to the side and leans against a wall. “The last victim,” she says. “Boy has an uncanny resemblance to you. And his name’s _Maxwell_ . . . is it a coincidence?”

Apollo doesn’t react. Hmm, is there any point in lying, really? “Nah,” is all he says.

Her expression is indecipherable. It’s not something he’d care to understand, anyway, he doesn’t think. “You knew. That’s why you’re heading off on a ‘walk,’ as you’re calling it.”

Is she implying he’s mourning? That he wants to get a breath of fresh air to ease his _grief_ . . . ? He could laugh right now, but he doesn’t. “I’m alright, man,” he says. “In fact, I feel more than alright.”

Sydney stares at him. “You don’t have to say th—”

“That’s why,” he goes on, shoving his hand in his pockets and flashing her another grin, “you’ll get your rent tonight, Miss.”

Well, he knows what _that_ expression on her face is—complete and utter puzzlement. He’d rather she doesn’t understand, obviously, so this is fine. He turns on his heel and heads out, and maybe she calls after him, but he doesn’t pay it any heed.

That night, the flames he conjures touch the sky, and he imagines the fire engulfing Atlas until he’s a sorry pile of ashes. Atlas isn’t his client’s target in this case—and he never will be now—but it’s a fantasy he doesn’t think he’ll stop chasing any time soon.


End file.
